


That's A Great Question

by Calliopinot



Series: Do You Feel This Electricity? [3]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Coming Out, Feelings, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Romance, Sex, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, nsfw-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-02-05 20:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12801741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calliopinot/pseuds/Calliopinot
Summary: The band figures out some things about Skwisgaar and Toki.





	1. That's a Great Question

**Author's Note:**

> I'm being really mean to Toki in my longer [Toki-fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12629268?view_full_work=true) right now and it's making me sad so here, enjoy some nauseatingly sweet garbage I wrote on my phone.

It had been a morning.

Not in the “make the mattress moan because your mouth will be a bit too busy” sense – although there had been a decent amount of that around daybreak – but in the sweet, wrapped in his arms, high on his scent kind of way. 

When at last they stumbled down to breakfast, leaving of course the requisite five minute window between arrivals, Murderface and Nathan were deep in a heated argument about some bullshit or other. Pickles was deep into his third bottle of hard liquor – that they could see. So they took their places opposite one another, Skwisgaar with his morning meal of arpeggios and nothing, Toki with a bowl of super healthy cut fruit and granola.

Skwisgaar had found it increasingly difficult of late not to sneak blushing glances across the table. Toki did his best to ignore them. He had always been most private with his romantic endeavors.

“No, I’ve had enough of thisch horschit!” Murderface’s outburst distracted from their game of visual footsie.

“Alright fine. When you guys get married, who gets to be best man?” Nathan was speaking to them. Directly to them. To Skwisgaar and Toki, both. Together. Not as individuals.

“I say it’s me. I’ve known Skwisgaar longest. Plus, I mean, I’m the lead singer, and, you know. That makes me the best.”

“Bullschit, schee, that’sh the problem with how you think Nathan, you think juscht becaush I’m the baschisht I’m not important and I can’t be bescht man! Well I’m Toki’s bescht friend! What about that!?”

“Huh huh, yeah, best friend. He didn’t even want you in his Toki club.”

Skwisgaar and Toki each merely stared at the pair as they returned to their argument. When did their cover get blown? They were careful, right? Although it didn’t seem like anyone cared—

“Pickle.” A small voice interrupted the battle royale that had rapidly begun to percolate. Four heads turned to Toki, and Pickles immediately tipped a fresh glass of breakfast bourbon in the guitarists’ general direction. 

“Glad t’ do it, kid! ‘m totally hanared.” He stood, as if to give a best man speech there and then, before promptly collapsing into his plate of eggs.

The room was silent, all the better to digest everything that had been revealed and acknowledged in the past 30 seconds. Sensing his opportunity, Skwisgaar stood and rounded the table, for the first time taking his rightful place beside Toki at the table.

It was a monumental enough gesture. Nathan returned to his book of poetry; Murderface resumed angrily stabbing his breakfast sausage; Pickles gurgled to indicate he was still alive; Toki dutifully ate his garbage food.

But Skwisgaar wasn’t done. He plucked away at the strings of the guitar for a few seconds, shifted positions, plucked some more, crossed his legs, uncrossed them, plucked some more. Then he grabbed Toki’s hand and gave him a chaste peck on the cheek.

That got everyone’s attention. It even seemed to rouse the drummer from his drunken slumber.

But Skwisgaar wasn’t done. He dug into his pocket, first pulling out a couple of picks and a tiny folded piece of paper. The last thing, a smooth, round black piece of metal, he slid around the third finger of Toki’s left hand.

Then he went back to playing. This time he didn’t fidget.

Neither did Toki. Toki didn’t move at all. His eyes fixed on the ring – deep, shiny black, studded with two rows of pavè black diamonds. It had such heft on his finger. On _his_ finger. Toki didn’t move at all.

“You broke Toki, asshole.”

“Nei, we uses de expensive lubes. I no brokes he asshole.” 

Skwisgaar went a little red in the face at the excess of information. But he kept on playing. And Toki kept on staring.

Eventually the shock wore off the room, and conversation shifted to the inane things Dethklok conversations shift to. When at last the topic became how many gallons of Jameson’s it would take to kill a horse, and whether Pickles could drink that much _without_ dying (fuck yeah!), and where they could find a horse at this hour, talk was halted by the sudden cacophonous boom of a heavy mahogany chair hitting the floor. 

All eyes once again turned to Toki. He stood ramrod straight for an eight count before wordlessly turning on his heel and marching out of the room.

Skwisgaar left of course the requisite five minute window before giving chase. Not because he wasn’t concerned; Toki’s reaction to his marriage proposal had been less than euphoric, and he just might have ruined things. Running after him could destroy what little face he had left to save with his band.

 

“Why you gives dis to me?”

Skwisgaar found Toki in his little hovel of a room, forsaken his bed in favor of the floor, where he lay curled in the fetal position, holding the sparkly black ring before his face in a vise grip.

“Because I wants you to marries me, duh.”

“Buts _why_?”

The Swede drew in a heavy breath, heaving it out as he raked fingers through his hair. “I knows, Toki. You ams way too goods for me.” 

Toki balked at the sentiment, and at the broken tone in which it was delivered.

“But—I loves you, _ja_?” He seemed just as bewildered by that statement, one he’d heard from this man a thousand times.

“Okay, fuck.” Skwisgaar bent his long limbs to join Toki on the floor. Gently, he extracted the ring from the young man’s grasp, holding it with one hand while he withdrew that tiny folded paper from his pocket with the other.

“I dids dis all backward I t’ink. Dem assholes at borkfest really screws me up! So here, reads dis.”

Toki smoothed out the crumpled note, surprised and a little amused to find elegant script written over blank lines of tablature.

 

 

> _Toki Wartooth-_
> 
> _I cannot say you are my heart, because I don’t have one. You are more than that. You are my soul. Your spirit is the part of me that exists eternally. You are my very reason for being. I love you more than any words can express. I love you more than any song can express. But if you let me, I will spend the rest of my life looking for the words and the notes to say exactly what you mean to me. I might not always get them right, but I will always try. If you let me._

The Norwegian scanned the page again and again. Such beautiful words, coming from Skwisgaar, did nothing to assuage his disbelief. He read them over and over and over until he could barely see the page through the tears.

“So what’s you says? You wants marries me or whats?” Skwisgaar continued to be shit at actually popping the question.

“Why’s dis dates say one year ago?”

“Pfft.” Skwisgaar was caught. He didn’t have an answer. Not a good one. “Cause I writes it one years ago, mores or less.”

Toki turned to him, pressing their lips and their bodies and their hearts together. His hands were suddenly everywhere, rubbing and scratching and squeezing every inch of the man.

Skwisgaar was impatient for an answer, but he was also not a fool. He nudged Toki onto his back, climbing on top of him in one connected motion.

Two shirts flew off and pants followed suit, heated pairs of hands eager for contact with bare flesh. Skwisgaar felt blindly on the bed for a bottle of lube – there was usually some stashed under Toki’s pillow for occasions such as these. The search alone was foreplay enough, both men well aware what this was and in no mood for titillation.

“Fuck!” Toki chirped as the head of Skwisgaar’s cock breached his waiting ring of muscle. He’d become old hat at this, but intrusion sans preparation was still a bit of a shock. Ever the considerate lover, Skwisgaar took to drawing tiny circles around Toki’s throat with his tongue to soothe and distract as he pushed further in.

Skwisgaar always surprised Toki in bed – or in this case, on the floor. Often, usually, when need blinded him to any semblance of performance quality, their sex was reduced to passionate, sloppy fucking, desperate humps that yielded the lowest moans and loudest screams. In these he still managed to find new positions and angles and feats of acrobatics that kept Toki literally and figuratively on his toes.

Sometimes, though, when he could hold himself back, Skwisgaar thought about the effects of A on B, the chain of causality between, for instance, an increase in pressure on that delicate bundle of nerves beneath the jawbone and the shiver that radiated all the way down to the pelvic floor. Tonight was one of those times.

Toki whined with delight as Skwisgaar moved from circles to figure-8s up the length of his neck, sweeping up and down in time with his thrusting hips, covering the sweet spot over his pulse almost simultaneously with glancing strides against his prostate.

It was more than he could take.

“SkwisgaaaaARDER!”

The Swede was more than happy to oblige, smiling at the delicious portmanteau he would have to file away for later. The grin morphed into a grimace as his hips increased in pace, so agonizing was his pleasure.

Toki’s face was a mirror of torture, albeit markedly more positive.

“Ja… ja… _YES_!”

“ _Ja_ … good…” Skwisgaar loved a loud affirmation of his prowess in bed.

“Nei, fucking dildoes… I means yes, I marries you!”

All motion ground to a halt as Skwisgaar’s eyes widened like two saucers of ice water. “What’s you say?”

“Don’ts makes me says it agains asshole.” Toki snickered, in spite of himself. “You asks me to marries you, I says, ‘Ja!’" 

Skwisgaar didn’t expect to break down in tears and laughter and sheer _joy_ , especially not mid-fuck, but he’d never had the love of his life accept his marriage proposal, either.

 

All night long they fucked, and cried, and fucked some more. And they were out, to the band at least, but it's not like anyone else in the world really mattered. And they were engaged.

 

*** 

 

“Ams dis a guitar string inside?” It was 2 a.m. or 2 p.m. or some time in the future. They’d been holed up together in Toki’s room forever, and Toki had been more keen on staring at his new engagement ring for the past few hours than actually wearing it. Rightfully so; it was an object of due fascination.

“Ja. Dat ams de low E from my guitar what ams I plays whens we foirst plays toget’er.”

Toki took a beat to do the math.

“You means from my auditions?!”

“Dat’s right. And remembers dat show in Boston ins de blizzard, afters de ‘Det’album” comes out, and you brokes t’ree string in a row, and I had an extra but it was de .52s and mades you bleed you’s fingers?” Toki frowned, but nodded. “I keeps dat one too. Dat was de best shows you’s evers plays til den. You ams bleedin’s for you’s arts. It ams beautifuls. I puts it in my rings.”

“You knews den?”

“Nei, not reallies. I knows you ams sometin’ specials.”

Toki sighed at the thought. He _was_ something special. And someone special, to the most important person in his life.

Then he did a little more math.

“Wait, _your_ ring? You has a rings made and you don’ts even knows I says yes?”

Skwisgaar kissed the tip of his nose.

“I has a feeling.”


	2. Helmet Frigid Wormhole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skwisgaar and Toki are excited for their wedding night at an isolated Scandinavian cabin. If only they can decide how to get through the door…

They trudged through the snow in their finest morning suits of armor, attire selected for its brutality in appearance without regard to its impracticality in function. The isolated cabin that was their destination reminded each enough of his childhood home to provide a suitable psychic “fuck you” to his forebears, yet it was distinct enough from those ancestral dominions to become the birthplace for new memories with the only man he’d ever loved.

Charles had insisted, when he learned of the impending nuptials, that their union be consecrated by the Church of the Black Klok. Getting married under the auspices of any religion, let alone one devoted to worshiping the very air they breathed, seemed wildly unnecessary and self-indulgent, antithetical to nothing they held dear as nihilists, and so it was agreed to without argument.

That would come later.

Neither man had any desire to be wed under 6,000 fathoms of North Atlantic; if High Priest Robot wanted to preside over their ceremony, it would have to be on dry land. The United States was out of the question for locations. Marriage licenses there were a matter of public record, and the band was not overly keen on snoopy fans discovering its two sexiest members were married – to each other.

Toki suggested Norway. He had a complicated relationship with the land of his birth, but who didn’t?

Skwisgaar suggested Sweden. He had a complicated relationship with the land of his birth, but who didn’t?

In the end, they compromised, and went with Sweden.

The modest 16th century castle they’d purchased for the weeklong festivities still rollicked some hundred or so miles away, but wedding nights were designed for more private celebrations. And so two Scandinavian guitarists plowed on through the snow, heavy metal boots adding ironic injury to every frigid, clunking step until they reached the little cabin’s porch.

Skwisgaar’s frozen fingers felt around what amounted to a pocket under the breastplate of his suit for the key. They  _could_  have requested the place be left unlocked after whomever was responsible for such things finished stocking it with everything they’d need for their honeymoon (guitar strings and lube, as far as Skwisgaar was concerned). They  _could_  have had a driver drop them off at the front goddamn step for that matter. But Toki wanted  _privacy_. He wanted to feel like a regular jackoff starting a regular jackoff marriage to a regular jackoff guitar god. Skwisgaar smiled in spite of himself. 

“Dildoes.”

“Whats?”

“Nothings.” He managed to steady his shivering hand long enough to unlatch the door, which swung open to reveal the deep wood tones and roaring fire of the Nordic paradise that would be their home for the next two weeks.

Toki was stopped short before he could dash forward into the cabin’s inviting warmth. Skwisgaar had taken up a rather awkward position: one arm draped over Toki’s shoulders, the rest of his body scrunched up in a squat. If he didn’t know better (and he didn’t), Toki would swear his brand new spouse planned to christen their union by taking a welcome shit on the front door of their honeymoon house.

“Wells?”

“Wells what?”

Skwisgaar looked at him as though he had no idea Toki could possibly be this dense.

“‘Wells,’ hops up.”

Toki looked at him as though he maybe should’ve read a book or two on Swedish post-marital customs. He narrowed his eyes at Skwisgaar, still posed in that weird half-squat, half-embrace, and jumped straight up into the air, once.

Skwisgaar tried not to choke holding in a laugh, failing at both.

“Toki! You’s dumb idiots, I means hops up into my arms sos I cans carries you inside. Ammen'ts goings to deadslift you, pfft.” He’d learned the hard way about that.

“Carries me? Why de fucks you does dat?” Toki scanned urgently around the threshold and floor for booby-traps. Maybe his insistence on a Klokateer-free vacation meant the adoption of bizarre safety measures only Skwisgaar knew about, or…

“Uhhmm, because we ams marries now. It ams tadiction.”

Toki stared at him blankly.

“You sees, Tokis, when a mans marries a wo— eugh, when two peoples ams gets marries, de man carries him’s bri— uh, it ams trakitchen! I marries you, I carries you!”

Toki paused for a beat before unleashing a howl of laughter to rival the wolves on the not-too-distant lakeshore.

“Ahhhhaha! You means like in dem old movies? Aww Skwisgaar, you ams so rose-manics.” Skwisgaar would have blushed, were it not for subfreezing wind preventing blood from reaching the top layers of his skin. “Buts I too marries you, so I carries you.”

“Nej, nej, nej. I asks you to marries me. I ams in charge. I carries you.” He chose not to point out the most salient dynamic that had dictated their entire relationship – the professional part, at any rate. But he would, if it came to it.

“I ams way more strongers dan you.” Toki took a step closer, sliding a bracing arm behind the Swede’s back. “Come on, Mister Romanticals. Lets you brave Sir Knight Toki sweeps you offs you feetsies.”

“I am not a lady!”

“Okay, and you t'ink I am?”

“Just lets me carries you!”

“Lets me carries you!”

“It ams my idea!”

“It ams _de world’s_  idea. You stole it!”

“Dids not!”

“Dids too!”

“I’m cold!”

“So am I!”

“I love you!”

“Me too!”

“Stops copies me!”

Toki rolled his eyes as he pressed his shoulder to Skwisgaar’s stomach. It wasn’t exactly romantic, the way he hoisted the Swede like a sack of potatoes, feet kicking and fists beating. It certainly didn’t look like the couples in those old black-and-white-movies, but then, neither did they.

Skwisgaar’s protests gave way to giggles as he recalled the last time he was in this position, all those years ago, when Toki first claimed him as his own.

“Hey Toki,” Skwisgaar started, after his feet returned to the ground – across the threshold at last. “T'anks.”

For what, he didn’t have to say. Toki knew. 

“You’s welcome.” Toki smiled as he leaned in for a kiss, pushing the door shut as he moved closer.

“Dildoes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Volitan wanted to write a wedding fic sequel to the first chapter here; this was kind of just an idea I had knocking around that in no way precludes that!
> 
> ((The title is an incredibly dumb yet fitting line from "I Tamper With the Evidence at the Murder Site of Odin," which I consider the quintessential Skwistok Dethklok song, even though and perhaps because it is bafflingly nonsensical.))

**Author's Note:**

> This here's probably the only time I'll ever write Murderface and Pickles in their accents because boy, I really hates it.


End file.
